


Wending Thy Way

by gloriouscacophony (KatrinaKay)



Series: Ineffable Husbands Week 2019 - SFW [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angel/Demon Relationship, Dragons, Epic quest, M/M, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 06:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20523686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatrinaKay/pseuds/gloriouscacophony
Summary: Ineffable Husbands Week - Day 3: Fall/Plummet/DiveIn which Aziraphale, the fifth angel son of a third son, and Crowley, a late-blooming demon without wings, are chosen to take the journey and slay the dragon.





	Wending Thy Way

  
  


_  
  
  
  
The ward of the barrow_  
_I’ll not flee from a foot-length,_  
_the foeman uncanny._  
_At the wall ’twill befall us as Fate decreeth_  
  
_—”Beowulf”_

  
  
  
When you’re the fifth angel son of a third son and a demon who hasn’t manifested his powers, you’re expendable. At least, that’s what Aziraphale and Crowley assume when their parents pull them aside in the week before the selection ceremony to inform each of them that, after the unfortunate incidents during the last quest five years ago, their families will be submitting them as candidates for this year’s quest. (They aren’t allowed to fly to the mountains anyway, so Crowley’s lack of wings won’t be an issue.)

They haven’t spoken to each other in years, since some vaguely remembered falling-out when they had just reached puberty, but they nod to each other in greeting as they join the other candidates on the platform in the meeting hall. The air is thick with incense and the exhalations of dozens of people crammed into the space, some more interested in the spectacle and others sending silent prayers to the gods that their families are passed over this time. In the decades and centuries since it first began, shortly after the gods shaped the world for the celestials, the quest has had more success than failure, although there's been a recent dry spell. Bodies are rarely recovered, so funeral rites are performed before the chosen depart, and celebrations of successful quests last an entire week, all work suspended so that the entire citizenry can dance and drink and revel.

The mage drones on and on through the chants. Crowley visibly yawns, earning a glare from his father. Aziraphale stands completely still, waiting anxiously. After the scriptures are read, it’s time for the branding, the mark pressed into their forearms.

It turns gold on Aziraphale’s arm, and on Crowley’s. They have been chosen.  
  


* * *

  
“Wait, so you actually _ wanted _to be chosen for this godsforsaken suicide mission?”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale replies, puffing out breaths into the cool autumn air. They’ve been walking for days, taking turns at watch as the other sleeps, but Aziraphale already feels the ache of lying on the hard ground with only a thin bedroll for padding. At least his wings keep him warm at night. After seeing Crowley shiver as Aziraphale kept an eye out for griffins and tree hags, he’d snuck his blankets into Crowley’s pack the next morning. The demon had quietly used them the next night and shivered no longer.

“Oh, I get it—you want the change to ‘make a difference’ or ‘prove them all wrong’ or something, is that it? Fat chance, angel. We’re just going to end up dragon barbeque like all the other chosen.”

Aziraphale stops; it’s as good a time as any to take a break, the late afternoon sun glowing at the horizon. They’ll need to stop properly to camp soon.

“You may have already given up, but I haven’t yet. Who knows, maybe we’ll be the first ones in…” He thinks through the crumbling tome housing the quest records. “...seventy-five years to succeed.”

Crowley groans, flopping onto a nearby log. “Wow, if that was your attempt at an inspirational speech, I’d hate to be inside your head on a bad day.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks color, and he pulls a wing close to inspect it for non-existent debris or bent feathers. Crowley continues his griping (“That dragon’s going to have you for dinner and use me to pick its teeth afterwards! I don’t want to be a toothpick!”) and soon Aziraphale has heard more than enough. He briskly packs away his water skin and strides down the path, not caring if Crowley is following.

“Hey, angel, where’re you going? Wait for me!” Crowley jogs down the path behind him, limbs splaying out from under the bulk of his thick tunic and pack like a marionette. When he catches up, Aziraphale ignores him.

“Are you really going to sulk the whole rest of the way to the mountains? Because I’m happy to entertain myself.”

“Are you really going to _ complain _ the rest of the way to the mountains?” Aziraphale shoots back, darting his gaze over to the demon to see his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Look, I’m just trying to...I dunno. It’s...this whole situation is hopeless,” Crowley shrugs, suddenly uncertain as their eyes meet.

“Well, I don’t think there’s any point in being so afraid until we see what we’re really up against. So let’s just...agree to disagree.” Aziraphale’s voice is quiet, and they continue in silence.  
  


* * *

  
They’re both subdued for the next few days, only speaking to one another when necessary to change watch or choose a campsite or decide who will fetch wood. Aziraphale’s brand is itchy, and it glows in the firelight when he rolls up his sleeves after supper (rabbit and potatoes foraged from the garden of an abandoned farmhouse).

His wings are also starting to itch, after a few weeks of neglect. As they lounge by the fire, Crowley hacking at a branch with his pocket knife in an attempt to whittle something or other, Aziraphale pulls his right wing onto his lap and begins to card his fingers through the feathers, starting at the primary coverts. It’s always hard to tell dirt from the pattern of soft brown speckles across the otherwise crisp eggshell color; during grooming sessions, his brothers often accidentally pulled at a spot in error, only to find it was in fact part of a feather.

He struggles to reach his lesser secondary coverts, closer to his shoulder, until Crowley clears his throat and puts down his whittling. “D’you, urhm, want some help?”

“Really? Oh, that would be marvelous, thank you!” Aziraphale gives him a surprised, relieved grin and pats the log next to him in invitation.

Crowley’s clever fingers sweep back over his primary coverts, finding a few briars and bends that Aziraphale had missed, before working in towards his shoulder. Aziraphale relaxes into the touch, the first physical contact he’s had in ages easing his muscles and sending a tingle over his scalp.

Drugged by the heat of the fire and the slow petting of this wings, he doesn’t think before he blurts out, “You’re quite good at this, you know, despite…” But then his brain catches up when Crowley’s hand stops, and he realizes what he’s said. “Apologies, I didn’t mean—”

“‘S all right, angel.” He doesn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “I’m used to it, by now. Kind of have to be.”

“So you...haven’t gotten any new information from the mage?” Crowley doesn’t reply at first, and Aziraphale opens his mouth to apologize again when the demon speaks.

“Not since the last time you and I spoke, I think. They just told me again that some celestials take longer than others. No one’s taken this long though, so I’ve stopped trying. You get enough broken arms and sprained ankles from diving off the town perch and you realize it’s out of your hands, you know?”

“Oh Crowley, I’m so sorry.” He lays a hand over the demon’s where it’s buried in his feathers. “It’s truly generous of you to help me with this. I wouldn’t be able to do it without you.” He offers a soft, sad smile.  
  


* * *

  
A week later, they can see the mountains, a purplish smudge at the horizon, and then another week later, they’ve reached the craggy foothills. 

They camp longer here, foraging and hunting and smoking food for the long, difficult trek ahead. It’s late fall, and if they’re lucky, snow will hold off for another several months, but game and vegetation are scarce on the steep, rocky slopes of the mountain range. Aziraphale performs a simple expansion sigil to make extra space in his pack for their larger food supply, as well as some dry kindling for starting fires. If pressed, he can conjure one, but it’s not his forte and takes a lot of energy that can’t be wasted...for after they climb the many miles to the summit, the dragon awaits.

Their luck with the weather holds until they’re about halfway up, and then a terrific snowstorm descends. The temperature plummets and even Aziraphale’s sharp eyes can’t make out anything in the dense white cover. So when Crowley finds a small cave, they clamber half-frozen into the shelter to wait out the worst of the storm.

The cave has a smudge of soot on the floor near the center, and Crowley finds markings carved into one of the walls: names of past travelers. But these slopes are uninhabited, so the names must belong to... “Other chosen. So many…” Crowley reads a few of the names, but the sounds are unfamiliar on his tongue. He looks to Aziraphale, who’s busy scrounging for dried meat and the last few mushrooms to make stew. “Is it good or bad that we ended up here too?”

“Neither, I should think. It’s simply ineffable.”

“Ineffable? So, all of this is fate then? Is that why you aren’t worried?” But when Aziraphale meets his gaze, he notices the dark circles and weariness written on the angel’s face. The journey is taking its toll on both of them.

“Even if I was,” the angel replies, stumbling to the mouth of the cave to fill the pot with snow to melt, “And I’m not saying I am, but if I _ was_...what good would it do now?” He sets the pot over the fire and adds the handful of mushrooms. “It’s not like we can turn back.”

“No, I suppose not.” Crowley plops down beside him, wincing at the soreness in his legs. “At least we’re not alone. I don’t think I could do this by myself.”

“Me either. If nothing else...I’m glad you’re here with me.”

That night, the wind changes direction and blows out their fire. Aziraphale prepares to sleep sitting up, unconcerned about threats approaching from the maelstrom. Crowley beds down near the embers, as far from the draft as he can get, but trembles wrack his body as it tries to warm itself against the chill.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, seeing the demon’s yellow eyes flash in the eerie brightness from the storm outside, “come here. Come and get warm.”

The demon only hesitates for a moment before clambering up to sit beside him, wrapped in the blankets and now Aziraphale’s wings, which fold around them to block the worst of the wind. With only a little hesitation, Aziraphale wraps an arm around Crowley’s shoulders. The demon leans into the touch, and they sleep, exhausted.

* * *

  
At the top of the mountain, they collapse, sighing with relief at the flat terrain that doesn’t slip out from underneath them into rubble. Aziraphale take a drink from his waterskin while Crowley rubs the tight muscles of his calves.

When they’ve rested as long as they dare, Aziraphale pulls their swords from the pack. Normally weapons of this grandeur and craftsmanship would cost more than most families made in half a year, but such weapons are a gift to the chosen, in honor of their toil and sacrifice to appease the gods.

Crowley rummages around in his own pack and pulls out a whittled wooden knife, finally complete. He looks inordinately pleased as he sticks it down his boot. 

“What exactly is that for?” Aziraphale asks.

“What d’you mean, what is it for? If everything goes to shit, it’s good to have a backup!”

“Crowley, we’re fighting a dragon. That knife is made of wood.”

“Hey, don’t judge the knife. Not like I can fly on out of there if things get hairy, can I?”

“I suppose not. It’s getting late, we should go if we want to finish this before it gets dark.”

They give themselves one last quick inspection, buckling the straps of what little armor they had carried all this way and setting their packs aside to collect later, if there is one. Then the angel and the demon nod to each other, draw their swords, and Aziraphale shouts the sacred words to summon the beast.  
  


* * *

  
Crowley darts to and fro behind outcroppings, dodging the sizzle and burn of the dragon’s fiery breath. “There’s a weak spot up behind its wing, can you get to it?” he shouts, leaving the safety of his hiding place when the angel shouts back that he’ll try. The demon waves his arms, brandishing his sword in big movements to draw the dragon's attention, as Aziraphale alights into the air on the thermals rising from smoldering craters left by the dragon.

Aziraphale has almost reached the spot, his sword at the ready, when a flash of silver darts through the air, and he realizes it’s Crowley’s weapon, careening over the cliff edge. He looks down in time to see the demon reach for the wooden knife in his boot, but it—and Crowley’s hand—are engulfed in flame.

The demon screams, and Aziraphale dives towards him without thinking, only to feel the crunch of the delicate bones in his wing as the dragon pivots. He’s thrown to the ground, the shrieks of the monster rattling his eardrums as the beast leaves Crowley for this new prey.

Aziraphale stumbles to his feet in blinding agony from his injured wing, and he may have blacked out for a moment. When his vision clears, he’s below the dragon’s belly and his sword is stabbing into the soft flesh under its arm.

Crowley is running towards him and he grins in relief that they’ve done it, they’re going to survive and go home and celebrate. The grin is still on his face as the dragon’s body collapses over the cliff, dragging Aziraphale with it, and he has just enough time to see the horror on his friend’s face before he, too goes over the cliff, useless wings fluttering behind him.

“No!” Crowley shouts, running as fast as his weary legs will take him, ignoring the ruin of his hand as he grips the dusty stone and watches Aziraphale fall, eyes closed in resignation at his fate. At this height, with only one working wing, there’s nothing to be done.

A silent prayer to the gods for a just judgment, and then Crowley steps back a few paces, breathes out, sprints to the edge, and dives. He can’t let Aziraphale die alone, and he won’t go back home alone either. 

Aziraphale opens his eyes to see Crowley falling towards him, and the wind swallows his sorrowful cry, but then...oh, then, there’s darkness and movement and Crowley is _ flying_ on beautiful, ebony wings, tucked back to ride the air. He grabs Aziraphale’s wrist with his good hand and pulls away from the ground and the cliff to land in a rough tumble that knocks the air from them both.

When he can move, and think, and speak, Crowley asks, “Angel, are you all right?” and Aziraphale nearly topples him over in a relieved hug before pulling away to gape at the demon’s wings.

“Crowley...you have wings! And they’re absolutely gorgeous!” Up close, under the dirt, there’s a rusty pattern at their tips when the feathers catch the light a certain way.

“I know!” The demon laughs and Aziraphale joins in, and they’re holding each other and shaking and crying in relief that they’ve done it, the dragon is dead and they’re still breathing, still alive.

“Here,” Crowley says, once he’s composed himself and tended to his own mangled hand, “let me fix yours.” His eyes glow a golden, molten yellow-orange as he reaches to the newfound well of power within himself and sends it out to Aziraphale’s wing where it sags against him.

“Thank you, I—” He stops, a strange look on his face, and Crowley’s about to ask what’s wrong when the angel’s soft, warm mouth is suddenly pressed against his, and he returns the kiss in kind. For several minutes, they breathe the same air and hold each other close, finally pulling away to lean in and rest their foreheads together, overwhelmed.

“I’ve been waiting to do that for so long. I wanted to say something, but there didn’t ever seem to be time, and…” Aziraphale trails off, looking up nervously at Crowley, who leans back in to render him breathless again.  
  


* * *

  
When the angel and the demon don’t return home in the spring, their people mourn them and make ceremonial offerings to the gods. 

In the foothills on the far side of the mountain range, smoke coils into the air from the chimney of a cabin, and the sound of wings fills the air.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from, other than a) having read a lot of high fantasy in my life, and b) not wanting to take the straightforward approach of writing about Crowley's fall from Heaven. I really liked writing this one.
> 
> Title comes from the epic poem Beowulf (XVIII, verse 41)


End file.
